Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “No, if you’re returning to Venice, then Will and I are going with you. I don’t trust Olivio, nor any of his kin. Even if you kill him, they will come after you.”

  “We promised your brother that we would bring you back home,” Will said. “If that takes another year, so be it. There’s nothing waiting for me back in London. Except a prison cell.”

  Antonio reached out a hand to each of them. “You came to Malta for me. Nothing I can do will ever repay you for that. You’ve been like brothers to me, and all I’ve done is lead you into danger.”

  “It has been exciting,” Martin said. “But Will is right. We’re in no rush to return home. Who knows? We may even get to see the sights this time.”

  “Then all I can do is thank you both. And you, Sergeant Ruvo.” He glanced around the ruins of Ruvo’s house. “At least it won’t take us long to pack.”

  Chapter 53

  Dawn had just broken when Antonio returned to the Grand Master’s home. Sir Oliver had already arrived, along with Sir Annet de Clermont. Two strangers sat at the parlor table. Valette greeted Antonio warmly, then gestured to the visitors.

  “I want you to meet Master Salvatore Laparelli, who arrived on Malta with the Viceroy. He bravely took passage with the Spanish soldiers, to begin work on our new fortifications. Last night he studied our drawings, and he and his son have already prepared several plans for our new city.”

  Antonio turned to the man sitting beside Valette. Laparelli, dressed in fine clothes that marked him as a gentleman of Genoa, forced a smile. “Signor Laparelli.” Antonio nodded his head in greeting, noting the haughty look of superiority that Laparelli didn’t bother to conceal. Antonio’s worn and battle-scarred attire did nothing to impress the Genoan. At least the stains of blood and worse had been washed away. To design for the Knights of St. John, Laparelli must be a master designer, and as such would have to be humored.

  “Sir Antonio,” Valette went on, “is one of Malta’s master gunners, and he holds the same position in London and Venice. He is also an expert in siege warfare.”

  “Very impressive for one so young,” Laparelli said. “I am sure Antonio will be most helpful.” He turned to the younger man who sat beside him. “This is my son, Domenico. He is also a master designer, certified by the Guild in Genoa. Domenico has worked with many master gunners on the forts and castles we have constructed.”

  A subtle reminder that Laparelli had plenty of experience with cannons. But Antonio knew that a wealthy and famous man like Laparelli could ease the way for his son into the guild, despite any lack of real talent on his part. Domenico appeared to be a smaller version of his father, sallow and soft, more flab than muscle. He also wore expensive garments and no doubt looked down at the shabby Knights with their patched clothes, Antonio included. Of course, neither man had probably ever swung a weapon in anger nor lifted anything heavier than a piece of chalk. Antonio politely nodded to him as well.

  He moved to the table and studied the elegant design that Laparelli had created. It included much more detail than the rough drawing Antonio had examined yesterday. Father and son must have done much of the work in advance, probably using maps and drawings from previous constructions. Much more detail needed to be filled in, but at least they had outlined the Grand Master’s proposed city.

  “Master Laparelli,” Valette said, “I would like you to work with Sir Antonio and Sir Oliver for the rest of the day. They have ideas and suggestions that should help you achieve our goal. Unfortunately, Antonio must depart for Venice in mid-afternoon.”

  “Grand Master,” Laparelli said. “I would be delighted to work with them. I understand, Antonio, you have some recommendations for the design of the magazine?”

  Not “Sir Antonio.”’ While he might not consider himself a true Knight, Laparelli should have noted the Grand Master’s use of the title.

  “Magazines,” he said forcefully. Antonio would not allow Laparelli to command the situation. The Genoan was as wily as any master craftsman, always pretending to know what was best for the client when in reality he merely padded the bill.

  Antonio had seen and heard it all before, in his father’s dealings with needy ship captains and lowly fort commanders. Sell the customer what you have already created or have in stock, and persuade him that it is in his best interest to buy as soon as possible.

  “Magazines,” Antonio repeated. “There must be at least three repositories for a fortified city this size.”

  Laparelli took a moment to react. Multiple magazines required complex structures and would substantially increase the labor. Access lanes and deep underground chambers needed to be constructed. “My sons and I have designed several fortifications as large as this one. One magazine, centrally located, should be more than adequate.”

  Antonio glanced around the table. Sir Oliver was staring down at the map, while Sir Annet, arms crossed on his chest, had apparently discovered something interesting on the beamed ceiling. Only the Grand Master watched the interplay between Antonio and Laparelli. “I suggest, Signor Laparelli, that before we make such decisions, we walk the peninsula.” Antonio didn’t intend to concede anything to this man. If the Grand Master didn’t like it, he could send Antonio back to Venice.

  “That way we can actually examine the ground,” Antonio went on, “discuss the perimeter walls, the quality and thickness of the stone, and placement of the guns. You can show us whatever plans you have prepared, and Sir Oliver and I will give you our ideas. I will explain why I believe you will want to construct at least three magazines, possibly four, depending on what we find on Mount Sciberras.”

  Once again Antonio turned his attention to the map and studied the new drawing, ignoring the others. Unlike the Knights, Antonio’s experience with detailed depictions let him quickly grasp the particulars. The walls were fully outlined, with thick black lines indicating the placement of the guns. Intrigued, he examined more of the map, almost forgetting those present. No one spoke as the minutes passed. Fortunately the document displayed plenty of features, the figures neatly written in a precise hand, many with accompanying notes in Italian.

  As the silence dragged on, Laparelli turned to the Grand Master, who met his gaze. “Grand Master, I am glad to work with Antonio, but my son and I have designed two castles in the hills surrounding Genoa and three others in Switzerland and Germany. We have many years of experience, as you know. There is little that we haven’t seen.”

  “Then I am sure Sir Oliver and Sir Antonio will be well satisfied,” Valette said. “But you must remember that we have just survived a siege, and we have learned much from the . . . experience.”

  “Signor Laparelli,” Antonio cut in before the Grand Master could go on. “Do these numbers represent the thickness of the walls?” He tapped his finger on the design.

  “Yes, of course. The walls will be at least 12 feet thick at their base and 40 feet high.”

  “Even the sea walls?” St. Elmo controlled the harbor from an elevation of 140 feet above the water. Most shipboard guns could not elevate that high, unless the attacking galleys wanted to waste gunpowder bombarding from further out to sea. “Do you expect a flotilla of enemy ships to be firing 64-pounders at the top of the cliff?” Antonio shook his head. “And these lines on the sea wall? Why are the cannons placed 20 feet apart?”

  Laparelli glanced at Domenico.

  “That is the minimum safe distance for a 42-pound gun,” Domenico said. Unlike his father’s heavy rasp, the son seemed to speak through his nose.

  Antonio moved his finger. “Why would anyone want 42-pounders mounted on the sea wall? Facing the sea, or for that matter, the two harbors? Accuracy and the ability to reload quickly are what counts. Even a 12 or 18-pounder striking a galley from a height, what we call a plunging shot, will sink a galley within minutes.”

  He shook his head. “What matters on the sea wall and the harbors is the quantity and accuracy of the guns, not their size. Smaller weapons can be reloaded faster and consu
me less powder. And can be placed closer together.”

  Domenico started to reply, but Antonio kept speaking. “If I read these numbers correctly, on the land side the thickness of the wall is also only 12 feet. Since that is where an opposing force would train its cannons, it should be at least twice that, possibly more. And the wall should be divided into additional batteries, to minimize the chance of an explosion or lucky hit by the enemy setting off secondary explosions. I would also recommend a much higher rampart, with as many bastions as can be fitted into its length.”

  Antonio straightened and faced the Grand Master. “Signor Laparelli has proposed an elegant and symmetrical fortress, but it is not necessarily the strongest or most effective structure for Malta should the Turks return. If you approve, Grand Master, after Sir Oliver and I walk the proposed perimeter, I’ll list my suggestions. Then you and Signor Laparelli can consider them at your leisure.”

  “That should be helpful,” Valette said. “Sir Oliver will attend to the details. Master Laparelli, the sun is rising. If you can wait outside for a few moments, I have other matters to discuss with Sir Annet and Sir Antonio.”

  “Of course, Grand Master,” Laparelli said, rising to his feet and bowing gracefully at the dismissal. He turned to Sir Oliver. “We will await your presence.” His son also bowed, then followed his father through the door.

  “Antonio,” Sir Oliver said when the Laparellis had gone. “I see that your tendency to . . . arouse people has not diminished.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended, Grand Master, Sir Oliver. But working with my father, I encountered many craft masters and I learned the various ways they can guide an unsuspecting customer to accept what they have in stock. No one wants to do more work than is necessary. If Laparelli can sell you plans that he has already developed, designs that he has experience in building, he will save time and money. It would be better, I think, to make him fabricate something unique that will meet Malta’s needs, even if it requires more work on his part.”

  “Antonio tends to be blunt, Grand Master,” Sir Oliver said. “But I am sure he and I can speak with Signor Laparelli over the next few hours and soothe any ruffled feathers.”

  “Very well,” Valette said. He turned to Sir Annet. “Are you satisfied with Antonio’s efforts?”

  “Yes, Grand Master,” Sir Annet answered. “I’m sure he will make an excellent deputy ambassador to the Venetians, where we will no doubt encounter a dozen like Laparelli.”

  When Antonio and Sir Oliver left the Grand Master’s home, they found a pleasant surprise waiting just down the lane. Signor Laparelli, and his son, Domenico, stood beside four horses. Horses, like everything else on Malta, were in short supply.

  “I thought all the Knights’ horses were at Mdina,” Antonio said.

  “They are,” Sir Oliver replied. “These fine animals are a gift from the Viceroy. No doubt he didn’t want to go to the trouble to reembark them.”

  The four mounted up, and headed for Marsa Bay. Antonio knew a good portion of the Viceroy’s soldiers were already in the process of returning to Sicily, and the plan called for only 1,000 fighting men to remain on Malta, all that could be supported on the rations that had accompanied the relief force. The Viceroy also intended to leave behind 20 artillery pieces, to help in any defense.

  The tough Spaniards would remain until the Grand Master felt satisfied he no longer needed them. Work parties had already begun digging fortifications on the ruins of St. Elmo. These would be extended to cover the two harbors. Repairs to the homes of Birgu and Senglea had also commenced, and the first shipment of stone blocks from the northern part of the island had reached Birgu the day before.

  For Malta and its inhabitants, the immediate future held only more hard work. Between the repairs and new construction, it would be many years before the fortifications were in place. Only then could the people relax.

  Whatever the reasons for the Spaniard’s gift, the horses provided a quick way to traverse Mount Sciberras. As they rode around the Corradino Heights, bright sunlight spread over the island, but the burning heat of summer had faded. The weather, as Antonio knew, would be mild for the next few months.

  Sir Oliver and Antonio led the way, with Laparelli trailing behind. “I see that you do not care for him,” Sir Oliver said as they rode. “Perhaps you are too impatient with those who do not agree with you.”

  Antonio smiled. “I’m sure Signor Laparelli has accumulated a long list of those who do not agree with him.”

  “The Grand Master was impressed with what you said this morning. He already had some doubts about the new design.”

  Unlike many of Laparelli’s clients, Valette was no fool, to accept one man’s opinion.

  When they reached the southwest side of Mount Sciberras, Sir Oliver waited until Laparelli rejoined them. As they paced the horses along, Laparelli explained what he planned to build on both sides of the proposed wall. Antonio described his own thoughts, envisioning what a possible attack by sea or assault by land would be like. In many places, the terrain was favorable for the defenders.

  “Signor Laparelli, you might want to consider that Malta’s defenders will always be few in number, so the fortifications must be strong enough to overcome that disadvantage. Cannons will make the difference, just as they did during the siege.”

  By the time they reached the ruins of St. Elmo, almost two hours had passed. Antonio fell silent at the sight of all the destruction. So many brave men had died here, sacrificed to prolong the siege. In the end, the extra week or 10 days that St. Elmo had stood had proved the difference.

  At least all the dead bodies were gone. Three batteries of five guns each had already been positioned. Two pointed inward, protecting the approach to Grand Harbor, and the other out to sea. The effort continued. About 60 Spanish soldiers, stripped to the waist, worked with picks and shovels constructing earthworks around the batteries.

  Cannonballs were stacked near each gun. An old, patched sail covered the gunpowder kegs and charges, to protect them from the sun and weather. In a few days, gangs of Maltese would begin relocating many of Birgu and Senglea’s cannons to the top of the cliff, to increase the coverage to include Marsamuscetto Bay.

  A young Spanish artillery officer, resplendent in his uniform and red sash, bowed respectfully to Sir Oliver when they approached. The officer, who appeared not much older than Antonio, introduced himself as Captain Manuel Ortega. He gave only a casual nod to the Genoans. Genoa was, after all, occupied by the forces of Spain.

  Antonio switched to Spanish and mentioned that for a time he had been the master gunner at St. Elmo. The quiet words caught everyone’s attention. In a moment all work had ceased as the soldiers gathered around Antonio, asking questions about the fighting at St. Elmo.

  He answered as best he could, covering the high points of the siege. When Antonio finished, Captain Ortega asked whether he had positioned the batteries effectively. Antonio went into a lengthy discussion of where and how the enemy galleys would likely enter Grand Harbor and how they had maneuvered outside the entrance. Ortega nodded and immediately gave orders to shift one of the inner batteries so that it provided better coverage of the harbor passageway.

  “More guns are coming, Captain,” Antonio said. “Soon you will have enough to defend the harbor. I only wish we had more gunpowder. But tell me, what would you do if the Turks land somewhere else on Malta and come at you from the landside, from the Marsa?”

  Ortega laughed. “My commander, General Salamanca, has 1,000 men less than two miles away. More than enough to stop the infidels.” He saw the doubt on Antonio’s face. “Don’t worry. We have fought the Turks before. Spain has battled them for over a 100 years and we have beaten them many times. They do not frighten us like they do the leaders of Genoa and Venice.”

  Antonio bowed. “Then Malta will sleep well at night, knowing you and your men are here. And again I thank you for your help in driving the Turks away.”

  By the time the goodbyes e
nded, the stop had lasted nearly an hour. Neither Sir Oliver nor Laparelli had said much, but the respect shown by the tough Spaniards had made an impression on the Genoan. By now he realized that Sir Oliver, like the Spanish captain, would accept Antonio’s ideas and suggestions as gospel.

  So Laparelli, who understood Sir Oliver’s influence with the Grand Master, swallowed his pride and made sure that all of Antonio’s comments were written down. Laparelli assured Sir Oliver that his specifications would be modified accordingly.

  After they rode away from the Spaniards, Antonio made his most important point. “I am sure, Signor Laparelli, that you would prefer to use stone blocks cut from these rocks. But you must make sure that none of the new walls or any part of the fortifications are constructed from the stone on Mount Sciberras. It is too soft. When hit by a cannon ball, it fragments or turns to dust. You must use only the granite blocks dug out of the earth north of Mdina.”

  He turned to Sir Oliver. “That is most important, Sir Oliver. Many men died in St. Elmo because the walls used blocks from Mount Sciberras. If you wish your new fortification to be strong, it must be built using the same granite as St. Angelo and St. Michael.”

  “We will be mindful of your concerns, Antonio,” the Knight replied. “The sooner new walls can be raised, the better. Word has already gone out to many lands, seeking new soldiers to join the Knights of St. John. In the next few months, we will add at least a 1,000 new volunteers to the Order.” He sighed. “By next year, Malta will be strong once again.”

  “When I reach Venice, I will spread the word that Malta needs soldiers and laborers,” Antonio said. “There are many in the Republic who would be glad for an opportunity to leave and start afresh.”

  “Be discreet, Antonio,” Sir Oliver said. “Venetian politics can be dangerous. Keep your focus on obtaining weapons for us. I know you are strong and can defend yourself, but do not be rash.” He smiled. “But enough of war and politics. I have another question for you. You have told me about your Gianetta. Do you intend to return to England?”